


The Holes In My Apologies, You Know

by turps



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Aramis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-05-30 08:22:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6416116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turps/pseuds/turps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt at the musketeers kink meme.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Four times Aramis carried Athos.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>With a plus one of an alternative.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [The Holes In My Apologies, You Know](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7793851) by [aqwt101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqwt101/pseuds/aqwt101)



> This is the first thing I've written for this fandom.
> 
> Not beta read.
> 
> Also, only the first two parts are finished as of now. But as I've been sitting on those for a while and it looks like the fandom is okay with wips, I decided to post.

“You, my friend, are heavy.” Aramis takes a step back, eyeing Athos who’s presently lying slumped against a tree trunk, chin against his chest and eyes still closed. They’ve been closed for too long now and Aramis wishes more than anything Athos would wake up.

“If you could feel free to help yourself a little it would be much appreciated.” Athos doesn’t reply, Aramis never expected he would, but even so he keeps talking. He has to, because if he keeps talking he doesn’t have to listen to Athos’ shallow breathing and the sounds of the forest around them.

Aramis hates the forest, especially this one with its apparent millions of trees and lack of any visible pathways and creatures that scurry and hide just out of sight.

“And yet knowing I could be eaten by a bear at any moment you still keep sleeping.” Aramis frowns and wipes at his brow, regretting again the loss of his hat. This late in the evening the heat isn’t oppressive, but even so Aramis is soaked through with sweat, and he’s sure with each intake of breath he’s swallowing at least two of the bugs that are swarming his head. 

“And no, despite what Portos may say, bugs can hurt me, they’re probably gnawing at my innards as I speak.” Either that or something else is gnawing at Aramis’ stomach, and no matter how gruesome the idea, it’s better bugs than dwelling on what he can’t fix. 

“We should go now, you’ve rested long enough.” A last look around and Aramis crouches, one knee planted in the moss as he rests his hand against Athos’ forehead, checking for fever. “You still feel a little hot, but that’s to be expected. I’d cool you down with water if we had any.”

But of course they have none, and won’t have any until Aramis gets them both back to safety. “Which means I need to carry you again. I’m sure if you were awake you’d protest, but as you are not….”

Standing, Aramis takes a deep breath, gathering the last drops of his endurance and strength. Not that there’s much. It had already been a long day before the ambush and fight, one that was unexpected, prolonged and resulted in Aramis and Athos both left for dead. 

“You just lie there. I have this,” and Aramis hopes that he has. As time passes it’s become increasingly difficult to carry Athos to safety, but no way is Aramis going to stop. Even if Athos is a dead weight, and at this point almost impossible to haul upright.

“I’m sorry, this is undignified.” Aramis positions Athos on his shoulder and attempts to stand, muscles straining in his legs and back as he straightens slowly, clutching onto Athos to ensure he doesn’t slip and hurt himself further.

Finally upright, Aramis screws his eyes closed, fighting the urge to groan at the pain that burns through his body. 

“We should go now.” Finally Aramis can speak, his arm tight around Athos’ legs and arm, keeping him in place as Aramis takes a step forward. “Though I must admit, I’m not sure if we’re going the right way.”

Aramis hopes so. At first he was sure they were heading towards a nearby village they’d passed on their journey, but the longer this day stretches, and the more the trees seem to expand, Aramis is starting to think they’ve been going in circles. 

“No, the village has to be this way,” Aramis says, reassuring himself as he keeps moving forward, trying to ignore the way his whole body is aching and how light-headed he feels, the trees that surround him seeming to shimmer and sway with each step. “And no doubt the thieves who attacked us there, too.”

If they are Aramis intends to take back their weapons and have his revenge -- a long and bloody revenge. That is, once he’s got Athos to safety and ensured his comfort.

“Some water and rest and you’ll be fine.” At least Aramis hopes so, as much as he’s practiced field medicine, stitching up wounds is different to something like this, when Athos looks little more than bruised, but still won’t wake up. Aramis has seen such things before, good soldiers left in small rooms, their minds gone and bodies fading. But that’s not going to happen to Athos -- Aramis won’t let it. He just needs to get him to safety, and then home, first.

“We just have to get there.” Aware that Athos has started to slip, Aramis pushes him back as best as he can, and grins when the movement makes Athos’ arm slide, so his hand loosely rubs against Aramis’ thigh. “Getting handsy, there?”

It feels good to smile, but it’s one that lasts all of a moment when Aramis steps onto a broken branch that rolls under his foot, pitching him forward so he lands on his hands and knees, Athos a deadweight over his neck and shoulders.

“Look what distracting me does.” His hands and knees stinging, Aramis takes a moment to just breathe, uncaring of the leaves and dirt as he rests his forehead against the ground, needing the stability as he faces the reality of struggling to his feet once again. 

“I don’t suppose you’ve woken up in the last few seconds?” Aramis turns his head, trying to see Athos’s face -- but it’s impossible. All Aramis can see is Athos’ hair, and trees, hundreds and hundreds of trees. “I hate trees. When I get my sword back I’m going to hack them to pieces.”

And Aramis will: along with the ambushers and anyone or anything else that gets in his way.

A long moment and then, “If you still design to sleep all day I’ll have to carry you again.” Resigned, Aramis starts to push himself up to his feet, the world spinning around him as he finds his balance, clutching onto Athos’ arm and legs as if they’re the only steadying influence Aramis has left.

“Are you ready, my friend?” Aramis takes a hesitant step forward, then another, barely moving at all, but that doesn’t matter. Aramis is going to get Athos to safety, no matter how long that it takes.


	2. Chapter Two

“This idea is ridiculous,” Aramis says, his head bowed and fighting a grin as he looks at the crudely made coffin on the back of a small cart. “And I love it.”

“Don't smile.”

Athos’ words are muffled by the wood, but even so, are filled with command. Aramis narrows his eyes as he softly replies. “You wound me. I would not be so uncouth as to smile at a funeral, even such a mockery of one as this.”

“But you wanted to,” Athos says, and Aramis takes a step forward, his hat held in his hands and head still bowed, his hair falling forward, hiding his face.

“Maybe so, but I did not.” Keenly aware of the nearby temple, and the beggars who have started to crowd the steps, hands outstretched as they wait for the daily distribution of food, Aramis knows they’ve only a few more moments to talk. “It’s nearly sunrise. They’ll be coming soon, you must remain as still as death.”

“I intend to,” Athos promises, and yet again Aramis wishes he’d been able to persuade the others to let him take on the role of the dead body. 

“I would have made a good corpse,” Aramis says, needing to state that again, even though, at this point in the plan, there’s no way they can swap roles. “I can remain still for hours, and have much practice in holding my breath.”

“I’m sure you have,” Athos says, and Aramis can easily imagine the look on his face, that often seen flash of humour hidden by affected disapproval. “But that does not matter right now, you need to practice your mourning.”

“That is one thing I have no need to practice,” Aramis says softly, reaching out to touch the lid of the coffin as the sun slowly rises, and the doors of the temple are abruptly pushed open. From inside four men step into view, all simply dressed, their expressions set and hands clasped, pious and shockingly clean against the dirt of the people around them. Ignoring the beggars, the small procession is led by the high priest who makes his way down the shining marble steps and onto the packed dirt path. 

Even without an actual death, it’s no hardship to pretend grief, Aramis’ chest aching and his eyes gritty as the solemn group of men slowly approach.

“It is time.” The high priest is dressed all in white, dust colouring the hem of his trousers, his shirt laced tight to the collar, the jewelled cross around his neck glinting with light. “You may help carry the departed to the steps of the temple, but after that, you can go no further. Inside is a sacred place, meant for the blessed or the to be-blessed only. The unclean must at all times remain outside of the holy space.”

“I understand,” Aramis says, and he does, this is part of the plan that he and his friends have discussed at length, the only way they can get someone into the temple to search -- but none of that helps. Now that they’re here Aramis wants to yell, no! That Athos is not -- will not -- be left on his own: but he can’t.

Instead he bows his head and plays his part in this plan, Aramis helping lift up the coffin containing his friend, the rough rope handle cutting into his hand as he murmurs a prayer and starts moving.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For this prompt at the musketeers kink meme.
> 
>  
> 
> _Four times Aramis carried Athos._
> 
>  
> 
> _With a plus one of an alternative._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left such lovely comments for the first two parts.
> 
> I've two more to post now, then after that one more to write from Athos' pov.
> 
> As previously, this hasn't been looked at by a beta.

“I do not recall asking for company.” 

Chin raised and arms crossed over his chest, Athos stands in the doorway to his room, barring the way. It’s barely early evening, but Aramis can see that, already, it’s taking Athos effort to remain upright.

“We’re friends,” Aramis says, his smile bright as he clasps Athos’ shoulder, feeling the sweat-damp material of his shirt under his hand. “Friends do not need invitations. Your home is my home. Your room is my room. “Your…”

“If you were a friend, you’d turn around and leave me alone.” In Athos’ mouth the ‘friend’ is twisted, displeasure plain to hear as he takes a step back, readying to slam the door.

Instantly Aramis moves forward, almost chest to chest with Athos when he says softly, “I am a friend. Which is why I’m not going.”

Athos shrugs, says, “Do as you wish, but you’ll be sleeping on the doorstep. I have no wish for your company tonight.”

Momentarily Aramis is tempted to turn around and just go. He’s no need to stand arguing with Athos, not when he’s got the whole night stretching before him, and multiple beds where he could seek solace and warmth. But it’s a temptation that does last little more than a moment, because Aramis knows this is exactly where he should be.

“Then I’ll sleep outside, it won’t be the first time.” Deliberately, Aramis looks around and scuffs his foot over the packed dirt next to the door. “I’ve slept in worse places, we both have. Do you remember the time with the hay and the rats? And how one of them tried to nest in my hair?”

“I don’t remember,” Athos says shortly, swaying a little as he does so. “You should go.”

“I should stay,” Aramis corrects, and takes advantage of Athos’ momentary lack of balance to ease past into the room. As always it’s sparse in furnishings and actual comfort, but usually Athos makes an effort to keep his things tidy. Tonight clothes, food and empty bottles litter the floor, while the bed is unmade, the blankets piled in a heap. “I see you’ve been having quite the party.”

“I didn’t ask you to come in.” Scowling, Athos takes a step into the room, his gait straight and far too deliberate as he closes the door and makes his way to the window where an opened bottle of wine sits on the ledge. “If this is too much for your delicate sensibilities….”

“My sensibilities are quite robust I assure you,” and they are, Aramis has been in many places in worse states than this. Has seen people in worse states in fact, it’s just, this is Athos, and seeing him like this always hurts. “But I do think bread should not be stored on the ground.”

“Don’t,” Athos says, biting out the order when Aramis moves to pick up a large chunk of bread that’s soaking up spilled wine and dust. “You don’t get to force your way in and do that. This is my room. My _space_.”

“I apologise.” Aramis holds up his hands, turning his attention from the room to Athos himself. “If you wish to live like this, of course, it’s your choice.” 

“It is,” Athos agrees, and then, lets out a long breath, visibly deflating as he says, “What are you doing here, Aramis?” 

It’s a good question. Mostly when Athos gets in these states they all know to leave him alone. It’s just what Athos does, who he is, someone who deals with his problems alone with the help of a bottle. But, something feels different this time and Aramis knows he needs to be here. “I came to see you.” 

It’s a truthful answer, and one Athos seems to accept, even if it is with ill-grace. “You saw me earlier.” 

“I did.” A quick look and Aramis sits on the bed, avoiding a damp spot. “That is, I saw the ghost of you. You’ve been absent for days, there bodily but not spirit or voice.” 

“I did my duty.” Athos snaps the words, his anger still simmering just under the surface, “And I had no interest in discussing farming or the assets of widow Durand.” 

And very fine assets they are,” Aramis says with a grin. “But we’re not here to discuss the lovely widow Durand” 

“So what are you here for?” Athos grabs the wine, taking a long drink from the bottle. “You force yourself in, won’t answer my questions, and for what? Because you didn’t see me when I’ve been there the whole time.” 

“Not all of you,” Aramis says, and runs his hand through his hair as he tries to think what to say. In the end all he can manage is, “You can’t keep doing this.” 

Athos stares and says coolly, “Doing what? Wanting my privacy? I think you’ll find I have every right to want that.” 

Frustrated at his inability to find the right words, Aramis stands and steps close to Athos, reaching out as he says, “This. The drinking. The locking yourself away when things feel bleak. You’ve been in the ale houses every night for a week and I suspect you haven’t slept for much longer.” 

“At least I don’t warm beds to hide from my feelings.” Athos moves back, avoiding Aramis’ touch. “You have no right to lecture me on how to get through the day. We all have our faults and they need no discussion.” 

“You’re right.” Aramis can easily admit that. He does have faults: many of them. But he also has an intense loyalty to his friends and a need to keep them all safe, even if that’s from themselves. “One day I may find myself at the end of a furious husband’s pistol….” 

“That has already happened,” Athos cuts in. “Multiple times.” 

“Yes, I’m aware.” Aramis shrugs his shoulders, the many times he’s had to flee from a lover’s chamber something he tends not to dwell on. “My point is. I could come to a grisly end, but such an ending is something I don’t seek. Unlike you and your situation.” 

“Many people could say that you do seek such a thing.” About to take another drink, Athos abruptly stops the motion, dropping his arm, the bottle held lax in his hand. “And I have no situation.” 

In reply Aramis indicates the ruin of the room with a significant tilt of his head, and then says, “I seek the adventure and thrill. But I have no desire to die, by pistol or any other means.” 

“And neither do I.” Deliberately, Athos sets the bottle back next to the window and leans heavily against the wall, not looking at Aramis. “I’m perfectly well. You have no need to be here.” 

“But what if I want to be here?” Aramis throws out the question, quickly assessing how receptive Athos will be if Aramis moves close. Taking a chance he takes a step forward, watching as Athos’ knees start to buckle. “And I do. Want to be here I mean.” 

“Then you’re a fool,” Athos says, and then, quieter, as if to himself. “You’re all fools. None of you will go away no matter what I say.” 

“That’s what happens when you have friends.” Prepared to leap forward at any moment, Aramis watches as Athos allows himself to slide to the ground, his shirt hitching up, caught on the wall’s rough surface. “I don’t know what’s going on right now, but I know recently you’ve been unhappy. We’ve all seen it and we all worry.” 

His eyes half closed, Athos looks up at Aramis. “And you lost the wager and had to come see me.” 

“Not at all. I wanted to come.” And Aramis did, he always wants to ensure Athos’ well-being. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, my friend.” 

There’s a long pause, enough that Aramis is starting to wonder if Athos is sleeping with his eyes open. Then, “You called me that before, when you were carrying me in that forest. My friend.” 

“You heard that?” Surprised, Aramis thinks back to that time in the forest, how he almost ruined his own health to ensure Athos was brought back to safety. “I thought you were senseless.” 

“I was, mostly.” By now Athos’ words are starting to slur, but Aramis suspects it’s through impending sleep and not wine. “I heard your voice sometimes, your words helped me from drifting completely away.” 

“Like when I called you a friend,” Aramis says and crouches in front of Athos so he can look at him face-to-face. “Good, because it’s true, I am your friend, and I’m not going anywhere. Well, apart from taking you back to your bed. You’re far too old to sleep on the floor when it's not needed.” 

“I’m quite comfortable here,” Athos says, but makes no other protest when Aramis hooks him under the arms and bodily hauls Athos onto his feet. As manoeuvres go it’s not easy, but Aramis has had plenty of practice and within moments is half carrying Athos back to the bed. 

“There, you’ll sleep much better like this.” Carefully placing Athos onto the thin mattress, Aramis efficiently gets him settled, boots pulled off and covered with the blankets that once littered the floor. “Sweet dreams my friend, I’ll be here when you wake.” 

And Aramis will be, no matter how long that it takes. 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For this prompt at the musketeers kink meme.
> 
> _Four times Aramis carried Athos._
> 
> _With a plus one of an alternative._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something a little more light-hearted after the last chapter.

“This will end in disaster,” Athos says, seemingly more amused at that inevitability than actually concerned. “I wager d’Artagnan will end in the dust and Porthos in the midst of a brawl.”

“A day like any other then,” Aramis says, unable to help his grin as he watches Porthos stomp his foot on the ground, his smile blinding as he crouches and indicates d’Artagnan to come close. “He makes a good horse don’t you think?”

“He does,” Athos agrees, his gaze assessing as he looks Porthos up and down. “Sturdy but speedy. He’d be an asset to any stable.”

“He would,” Aramis agrees. Taking another long drink of his wine he shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing against Athos’ and settles to watch this next bout. Which, as musketeer tournaments go is less violent than usual. And for that Aramis has to be thankful. After so long confined to barracks in the midst of a burning hot summer, most of the men are going stir crazy, so something spontaneous and carefree like this is just what was needed.

“I think d’Artagnan is about to mount him,” Aramis says, trying for serious, but his smile widens even further at his own words.

In response, Athos raises an eyebrow and then smiles, only the slightest upturn of his lips as he says coolly, “And won’t that be a fine sight.”

“It certainly will,” Aramis says, and manages to remain straight-faced for all of a second before bursting out laughing. 

“You’ll distract the contenders,” Athos says, his words chastising, but while his previous smile is now hidden, Aramis can see how his eyes are gleaming, how relaxed Athos looks and sounds, the outer layers of his uniform long cast aside as he stands watching the others.

“Then I shall stop laughing immediately,” Aramis says, mock contrite as d’Artagnan takes a short running jump forward, landing solidly on Porthos’ back. “A good mount wouldn’t you say?”

Athos nods and rubs over his forehead with the back of his hand, wiping away sweat. “I feel he could have shown a little more finesse on the upspring, but in general. Yes.”

“Picky,” Aramis says, his attention moving from Porthos and d’Artagnan to their competition, two musketeers that barely seem able to stand upright, good-naturedly throwing insults as the smaller jumps onto the other’s back. “A most unbalanced contest, it’s like putting a thoroughbred against a donkey.”

“Donkeys are very tenacious things,” Athos says, taking a drink of his wine before he adds, “But yes, our wager is safe.”

Aramis frowns. “They’re also mean at times and can kick for no reason.”

“Only when provoked,” Athos says, smiling again as he looks over at Aramis. “And you should stop bearing grudges. That happened years ago.”

“I can still feel the imprint of that hoof when it’s wet. In fact….” Aramis stops talking, his tirade of woes about devil donkeys interrupted when Porthos yells and runs forward, the other pair of musketeers instantly doing the same. Laughing, d’Artagnan holds onto Porthos’ shoulder with one hand and uses the other to try and dislodge the other mounted musketeer, hitting out, the dust billowing in clouds around all four as they run and dodge and attempt to bring the other pair down.

“You see, the donkey is doing just fine,” Athos says, and Aramis has to agree. Not that it means they’re going to win. Porthos and d’Artagnan are too in sync, moving easily together, their balance flawless as Porthos yells again. Beaming and wild-eyed he runs toward the other pair, d’Artagnan raising both hands, his hair streaming behind him as he stretches out to the side, hitting the other mounted musketeer full on the chest with both of his fists.

Aramis pulls in a breath, sure that the end is in sight -- and it is. With a thud, the unseated musketeer hits the ground, the other falling too within moments, both laughing as they lie in the dirt, sweat-streaked and filthy.

“Victory is ours!” Porthos runs in a circle, d’Artagnan still holding on with his knees, arms raised in victory as they encourage applause from those watching. “See the winners of the first human joust bout.”

Delighted, Aramis can’t stop grinning as he says, “They’re going to be insufferable for days.”

“Unless someone defeats them,” Athos says, and sets down his cup. “We could provide some actual opposition. That is, if you’re willing to carry me again.”

It takes a moment for Aramis to take in the suggestion, but when he does he puts down his own cup, so happy that his face hurts where he’s smiling. “You want to take part?”

“I do,” Athos says, and then, “It’s hot and we’re stuck here for the unforeseeable future. Better this than counting ammunition again.”

“True.” Seizing the moment before Athos can rethink what he’s doing, Aramis pushes up his shirtsleeves, strides forward and announces, “Make way for the real winners.”

“You think you can beat us, eh?” Porthos says, clasping Aramis on the shoulder when he gets close. “I’ll knock you off within seconds.”

“You could try, but I’m carrying Athos.” In demonstration, Aramis crouches slightly, bracing himself as Athos jumps up, his legs wrapped around Aramis’ waist, holding on tight.

“Ready to win?” Athos says, and leans forward, warm and solid, his breath hot against Aramis’ cheek as Athos adds, “We’ve got this. I trust you to carry me always.”

“Good,” Aramis says, and at that moment everything is Athos, the feel of him on Aramis’ back, the sound of his breathing, the heat of his body. Aramis feels surrounded, safe and energised as he stands in the bright sunlight, sweat trickling down his face and his best friends standing close by. It’s a moment he knows he’ll remember forever, seared into his memory as around him, the other musketeers yell encouragement and make wagers.

With a smile, Aramis takes a step back and readies to charge.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For this prompt at the musketeers kink meme.
> 
> Four times Aramis carried Athos.
> 
> With a plus one of an alternative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first thing I've written for this fandom.
> 
> Not beta read.
> 
> Thank you again to the people who left such lovely comments on the other parts. I've had a lot of fun writing this, it was a fantastic way to dip my toes in the fandom.
> 
> I'm ending this with a sick Aramis, one of my new favourite things.

“Tell me, have I told you lately you’re a fool?” Athos looks to the side, taking in the pallor of Aramis’ skin and how he’s barely keeping himself upright. “Because if I have not, let me remedy that now. You’re a fool.”

“So you’ve said, repeatedly.” With an apathetic swipe of his hand, Aramis waves away Athos’ chastisement, but it’s a testament to how ill he must feel that he says nothing more. No glib words or attempt to deny that he actually is fine. 

“You don’t need to be here.” Which is true, as jarring as it now is to be three and not four, it’s not like Athos and his friends are all actually joined at the hip. Plus, this is duty for appearance sake only. For once there’s no whispers of potential harm to the king, just hours of standing around in full uniform while watching the royal shooting party. Athos could do such things in his sleep -- has done so on occasions -- and Aramis should not be here. “You should go. If your absence is noticed Treville will cover.”

Aramis smiles, but a smile that’s barely a shadow of his usual beam as he says, “Of course my absence will be noted. I’m immensely notable.”

“Immensely stupid you mean,” Athos says, frustrated at Aramis’ inability to see sense. “You’re obviously ill.”

Shoulders straight and mouth a narrow line, Aramis stares into the distance, pointedly not looking at Athos. “I can still do my duty.” 

“No one said that you couldn’t.” Frustrated, Athos looks toward Porthos, considering the ramifications of telling him to scoop Aramis up and carry him back to the barracks. But, as tempting as the idea is, a musketeer being carried against his will wouldn’t look good, and Athos has to take another tack. “But remaining here while ill is foolish and selfish. You could pass on your sickness to the king -- or the queen.”

It’s a low blow, and Athos hates to use it, but it’s all the persuasion he’s got left. 

“Fine. I’ll inform Treville that I’m feeling unwell,” Aramis says, his words clipped as he turns sharply, swaying and catching himself before he starts to head in the direction of Treville. “I and my sickness will leave.”

“Good,” Athos says simply, his hands clenched as he fights the urge to leave his post and follow.

~*~*~*~

It’s late before Athos can even think about going to check on Aramis. After an endless afternoon watching the shoot and an early evening spent discussing security plans for a last-minute royal banquet, all Athos wants to do is leave Treville’s office and go. 

“He said he didn’t need to see the physician earlier,” Treville says, pushing aside piles of parchment covered with plans of the palace. 

As statements go it’s both unexpected and contains no reassurance at all. His own plan ignored, Athos looks up and says, “This is Aramis we’re talking about. He could have a leg falling off and he’d say it would be fine in the morning.”

“I’m aware.” Treville sighs, and leans back in his chair. “Which is why you can go now. I’ll finish this.”

More than anything Athos wants to say yes, but he doesn’t. He can’t, because no matter how much he wants to ensure Aramis is okay, Treville needs him here, too. Athos can’t just leave, he’s got a job to do and plans to look over and multiple other things that need doing before he checks on his sick friend.

“Both Porthos and d’Artagnan went to check on Aramis, I need…”

“You need to put aside those plans and go see him too,” Treville cuts in, taking hold of the parchment in front of Athos and pulling it toward his side of the table. “The majority of plans for tomorrow are done now. I’m quite capable of doing the rest. So go. Check on him, and pass on the message I don’t want to see him tomorrow.”

There’s only so much persuasion Athos can take and he stands, almost knocking over his chair in his hurry to get to the door. “I will.”

“Good,” Treville says, and then, “And if he tries to get out of bed, tie him down.”

Athos smiles, says, “With pleasure.”

~*~*~*~

The last thing Athos expects to see when he knocks and lets himself into Aramis’ room is Porthos on his knees, using a wadded up cloth to mop at the floor while d’Artagnan is hunched over the bed.

Confused, Athos takes a hesitant step forward, then freezes in places when he sees Aramis standing next to the open window, shivering as he rubs at his bare arms. Stripped down to his underthings only, he looks miserable, mouth down-turned and far too pale, swallowing hard before he glances at Athos, their previous quarrel apparently forgotten as he says, “I’m afraid you came at a bad moment. I told Porthos I’d clean up, but he insisted.”

“You just stay there.” Porthos points toward the window, his frown doing nothing to hide his concern as he adds, “A few minutes and d’Artagnan will have your bed changed and you can lie back down.”

“I should do that.” Aramis starts to move forward, but barely takes a step before his knees buckle, causing Athos to launch himself forward. Reaching out, he grabs hold of Aramis’ arms and holds on tight, keeping him from falling."

“And that is why I told you to stand still,” Porthos says, the _you idiot_ unsaid but strongly implied. “I’ve already had to prop him up once."

“I didn’t need propping up, I was quite capable of standing on my own.” Which is a statement that would hold more weight if Aramis wasn’t shivering violently, his skin hot to the touch and swaying despite Athos’ steadying grip. 

“Try that on those who believe you,” Athos says blandly, and while he makes no other comment, he’s all too aware that Aramis’ eyes are closing, heat and the sour scent of sickness rising from off of his skin. 

“Done.” With a flick of his wrists, d’Artagnan drapes a blanket over the bed and then folds back the top, exposing the pillow. “You can get back in now.”

“Thank you,” Aramis says, and Athos can tell he’s gathering strength for a journey that’s all of a few steps. “You’re a good friend.”

“It’s nothing.” d’Artagnan shrugs off the comment but looks pleased as he smooths out an imaginary wrinkle on the blanket and picks up the thin pillow, trying to plump it up.

“No. It’s everything, none of you need to be here, and yet….”

“You can repay us by going to bed.” Usually, Athos would never interrupt someone who’s speaking, but right now he’s well aware that while Aramis is grateful, saying as such is mostly a delaying technique. “Right now.” 

With that scant warning, Athos scoops Aramis up into his arms, holding on tight and making no other comment, as if carrying a friend is an everyday occurrence and nothing worthy of note. 

“I was going myself,” Aramis says, but as protests go it’s perfunctory at best as he rests his head against Athos’ shoulder, limp as Athos easily carries him to the bed, careful of the damp floor and mound of wet cloths Porthos has pushed to one side.

“Well now Athos has saved you the effort.” Standing at the foot of the bed, Porthos pulls the blanket so it’s folded even further, brow furrowed as he watches Athos gently lay Aramis down. 

“And I’m going to go see Constance to get more blankets,” d’Artagnan says, easing himself between Athos and Porthos. “You still look chilled.”

Aramis shakes his head, wincing a little when he does so. “I’m fine.”

“Of course you are,” Athos says, bending so he can rest his hand against Aramis’ forehead. Feeling the heat and lack of sweat he looks over to d’Artagnan. “Bring those blankets and some tea if you can get it.

“I’ll get it,” d’Artagnan promises, and smiles at Aramis, taking a moment to touch his shoulder before turning to leave.

“And we’ll stay and watch this idiot,” Porthos says, busying himself pulling up the blanket and tucking it in so Aramis is covered from his feet up to his chin. “If you feel sick again there’s a pot on the floor.”

“That’s if he can escape from this cocoon,” Athos says, loosening the blanket a little, reluctant to leave the bedside when Aramis looks so unusually white-skinned and wretched. “How are you feeling now?”

“My stomach is churning, my head is pounding and all my bones ache,” Aramis says, each word muttered and barely audible as he shivers, his eyes tightly shut. “But I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“Of course you will,” Athos says, exchanging a look with Porthos, and together, they both sit and prepare to watch Aramis sleep.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Holes In My Apologies, You Know [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13260867) by [ItsADrizzit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/pseuds/ItsADrizzit)




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